Mr. Mountain

In the 1960s, my mum lived in the beautiful village of Groombridge. Together with her sisters and friends, they played all over the village. When they got thirsty, they used to visit their friend, a gentleman by the name of Mr Mountain, who was the owner of the house in this picture. Groombridge Place.

Last week, Mum and I took Isabelle and Emilio there and, as we walked from the car park, up the long drive to the entrance, she reminisced about her childhood, pointing out trees they used to hide behind, parts of the gardens they played in, where they took shade in the midday sun and where they leaned their bikes.

There is a beauty and romance with any stories involving parents and their childhood that you only fully understand when you are an adult and have children yourself.

Groombridge Place is a wonderful day out for the family but this is the first time I've visited with Mum, Isabelle and Emilio all together. We will go back, not just because we loved the Archery or the huge walk we took, but because it holds meaning and thousands of memories for Mum and, therefore, has meaning and poignancy for me too. Plus, I'd like to continue to teach my children to appreciate their family history, to be interested, to question, to learn, to listen and to understand.

My Grandpa on my Mum's side was a pilot in the early days of air travel and very sadly died shortly before he was due to fly home when she was 11. He is buried in the cemetery just a short distance from Groombridge Place: It's where both Mum and her mum have requested to be laid to rest when their time comes. We will visit my Grandpa's grave on the next visit to Groombridge at Isabelle and Emilio's request and hopefully, one day, they will both look back at this beautiful house in the Sussex countryside having forged their own memories of time spent here with their Daddy and Nanny.